Rose stirred the grasses with her hands;Esme(e)
stood quite still. "Well,
what do you think?" Rose asked and smiled,and
her smile,her smile,was
an autonomous thingI could not save or conquer.I could not see what it meantfor
Esme(e).

Rose
waited, longer than she wished,for answer,
then said,"Aren't you speaking?Won't you say?" "What
I think?" "Yes,
fine, fine, say it."Rose spun the drum of
chance with vigor of owned impatience.Her
hands were rapid in the grass.

Rose
asked: "Would you? could you?" "Won't
you say?" Rose. "Do
you think would can become could?Is that the
type we are?"Rose. "Perhaps." "Oh
that's no answer at all, Esme(e)!" "Perhaps."

"I could shake you when you get like this!" "Elaine
says so." Rose
caught herself close and stilled. "Of me?" "Of
herself." "Impossible!"
Rose turned to the meadow quickly an entrance before them."If
we went out upon it and kept going would we reach the other side?Could we?And if we're
that type,should we?"Rose
turned back. Her lips moved in that smile. Esme(e)
said, "Are we?"

Was there
ever air like green waterso filled and sweet
with light it is?I thought I saw such once;it must have been in afternoon.

Songbirds unseen garnished meadowwhere
Rose and Esme(e)walked.

Rose
stated, "It looks the meadow grass goes on and onforeverthese trees fabulous, diaphanous,and
will fall before our stridedon't you think?the meadow goes on and onits
shape reluctant to divulgeits shape dependenton our courseinto the
meadow seeking center, possibly,or circumambulatingthough whether with sober intent or choice to deludeonly the meadow mightcome
to know.Do you think the meadow knows?But if we go out upon it, through it, could we come
to its end as well as its center?adventuringwould you?"